Three Less a Baker's Street Dozen
by HangSonDoong
Summary: Ten short stories based on songs, written for timed writing practice. Generally romance-focused and slightly poetic in tone. Includes references to Johnlock, Mystrade, and several background or angsty het pairs. *Spoilers for Series 1 and 2*


**A collection of (entirely random) shuffle song-response drabbles. _Italics lyrics belong to the specified artists in the titles. _Characters belonged originally to the great ACD, current incarnations to the Mofftiss Lords. Just playing, thank you!**

**SPOILER WARNINGS THROUGH SERIES 1 AND 2. **

**Thank you for reviewing these, my BigBluePudding beta - your mixtape is next on my songfic drabbles list. *Smug Smaug***

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><p>My Only One by The Plain White Ts for Episode 2.1<p>

_If you love me too, can I call you my only one?_

_If you say no, I won't let go_

Sherlock curled into the chilly fake leather of the couch, feeling the cheap material slide across his skin. He didn't like this at all, didn't like the way in clung to his skin, needy, wanting. Reminding him of her, always pushing for more... more time, more attentiveness, more than Sherlock wanted, or really, was capable of giving. In all their time together, The Consulting Detective and The Woman, he hadn't understood that cling.

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><p>Like Whoa by Aly &amp; AJ for Episode 1.1<p>

_In the morning it begins again_

_Feels like I'm falling, better strap me in_

_I think I'm running out of oxygen_

_And it feels good, it feels good, it feels good_

It was like riding a roller-coaster; this, this being caught up in the rushing wind and beating heart rungs in the wake of the ever-preceding Sherlock Holmes. John knew that the accusation that he "wasn't haunted by the war," but instead "missed it," was ludicrous. But right now, the mad dashes of case after case draining any weakness from his system, this? This was heaven on a painted-metal track.

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><p>Runaway by Bonnie Raitt for Episode 2.2<p>

_I'm walking in the rain, tears are falling and I feel a pain_

_Wishing you were here by me to ease this misery_

Gregory paced nervously back and forth outside the inn in Dartmoor, hearing his conversation with John and Sherlock running through his head. Slightly regretting how quick he was to deny his subservience to Mycroft, just as he'd regretted running away from the infuriating man in the first place. It was too soon, he'd said. He needed time to come to terms with not having a wife, with not thinking of every errant thought towards Mycroft's appealing lips as a dalliance. Now, all he wanted was to be back where he belonged, back in Mycroft's arms.

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><p>How She Could Sing the Wildwood Flower by Emmylou Harris for Episode 2.3<p>

_In the end he knew she'd been his finest hour_

_And all he has left of her is a song_

The faint sounds of a violin floated out throughout the flat, fairly appearing to curve around Molly's unwashed dishes and homey furniture. After the heartbreak and betrayal of having to lie, over and over and over, weaving falsehoods into her own being whenever a little bit of his old life stumbled into her, this was unusually comforting, this quiet tune. And on Sherlock played, thanking her for her silence, her patience, in the only way he knew how.

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><p>Sawdust &amp; Diamonds by Ben Sollee for Episode 2.3<p>

_Push me back into a tree_

_Bind my buttons with salt_

_Fill my long ears with bees_

_Praying: please, please, please_

The stage stretched out in from of him, pulling him out into the center, in front of the quiet mourners. They were few in number, but felt whole in this place. Mycroft sighed, and gathered his courage once more. To do this, to say what he was about to say, was never something he thought it would be his duty to do. Not Mycroft. Not for Sherlock. Of course, those broken and brittle years before there were Gregory and John, respectively, there were a few occasions when he'd thought the irresistible pull of the never-bored-all-the-world-is-new-and-white-and-i-don't-have-to-hear-them-all intoxicant high would cause this. This awful day, this awful stage telling him to do his duty, put on a brave face. Because his baby brother was dead, that was what was expected- they expected a grieving face, with lines for sadness and tears for loss. Like Johns'. But that wasn't something Mycroft could provide. If he pulled up his usual diplomatic expression, he might, _might, _be able to speak in the past proper tense and without breaking. Otherwise, they'd be able to tell that he was already shattered, broken into as many pieces as Sherlock had been on that cold morgue table.

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><p>Deer in the Headlights by Owl City for Episode 1.2<p>

_It's suffocating to say,_

_But the female mystique takes my breath away._

_So give me a smile or give me a sneer,_

_'Cause I'm trying to guess here._

She was so strong and stern, with her quick-cut threats and all-business matter. She was effortlessly graceful in spite of it, snapping out insults to chase away the Consulting Jerk. And she would never notice the little Sergeant-soon-to-be-Detective-Inspector fawning over her words, not for all the world that Dimmock hoped it would be so.

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><p>Sing for Me by Yellowcard for Episode 2.3<p>

_Out of time_

_All out of fight_

_You are the only thing in life that I got right_

Trails of notes left in ink, in dust, in scraps of paper that blew in the cold London streets, always just out of John's reach. He'd started noticing them not long After. Well, as much as he noticed anything After. But the edge of two initials, one tall and rotationally symmetrical, the other squared and blocked, imprinted themselves over everything John saw, and so he took them, and put them up wherever they seemed to need to be expressed. S-H-S-H-S-H- ... it whispered to him always.

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><p>Eyes On Fire by Blue Foundation for Episode 2.1<p>

_I won't soothe your pain_

_I won't ease your strain_

_You'll be waiting in vain_

_I got nothing for you to gain_

The trembling little footsteps on the stairs hesitated, yet again. They always took one step up and one step back, two more steps up to just barely brush the wall as she edged into the flat. It'll be so difficult to slip past the cautious eyes of a caring doctor, she thought to herself. But it turned out Irene had nothing to worry about as she crept silently into the bedroom, tucking a little present into Sherlock's coat pocket as she hung it on its familiar peg on the back of the door. There was no Dr. Watson curled around the very unconscious detective. That surprised her - Irene was unused to being wrong about matters of what people liked. Although, she supposed, this had less to do with either of their 'likes.' Well, this was why she left matters of the heart to other parties entirely. Ones far better at burning.

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><p>Drive On by Avalanche City for Episode 2.2<p>

_In the car on the way to the city_

_In the morning it was foggy on the windscreen_

Why exactly it had seemed a good idea to let John drive on the way home, Sherlock would probably never know. There was a reason Sherlock had driven down to Dartmoor in the first place: John hadn't ever obtained a license, and while something so trivial didn't bother Sherlock, he'd agreed to take the wheel anyway. So when John asked for the keys, Sherlock tossed them over without a word, simply glad that John appeared to have forgiven him. But on the list of Sherlock's least advisable ideas, letting Captain Watson handle a Land Rover didn't even place preferable to Cluedo.

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><p>I Will Follow You Into the Dark by Death Cab for Cutie for Episode 2.3<p>

_Love of mine some day you will die_

_But I'll be close behind_

_I'll follow you into the dark_

When Sherlock had said those words, that he'd simply rather have whatever illness John happened to have, just so that they'd have about the same life expectancy, John had been angry. The idea of Sherlock slipping into the dark void after him wasn't love, it was vindictive and selfish- just because John wasn't there, that was no reason for Sherlock to stop roaming the London streets, on even the blackest of nights. So when the scales are reversed, John is saddened and a little ashamed to realize he doesn't have the courage to follow Sherlock this time. Not to the one place where he can't follow: over the edge, into the long dark of the Fall.


End file.
